


Let the Only Sound be the Overflow

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Betrayal, Childbirth, Death in Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, Love might enter into it, M/M, Oneshot, Romance, Series 4, Smut, Twisted Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:24:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been delivered from certain doom, but was that really Moriarty?</p><p>Meanwhile, John contemplates his waning friendship with the detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Only Sound be the Overflow

**Author's Note:**

> This was sort of a fleeting, twisted thought I had about series 4... don't judge me too harshly!
> 
> Or do, I'd love to hear your thoughts either way :)
> 
> Title taken from Florence + The Machine's "What the Water Gave Me." Idea for this fic also started there, but not exactly based on it.

**‘Cause they took your loved ones,**   
**But returned them in exchange for you,**   
**But would you have it any other way?**   
**Would you have it any other way?**   
**You couldn't have it any other way.**

**-Florence + the Machine, "What the Water Gave Me"**

 

_Did you miss me?_

_Miss me?_

_Miss me?_

_Miss me?_

_Miss me?_

 

The words had been the bane of Sherlock's existence for quite some time, and he couldn't pinpoint _why_.

 _Make a big show like that, and no follow-up?_ He sulked, _That's so unlike Moriarty…_

It had been a couple months since Moriarty's suspicious "re-appearance," and Sherlock remained unconvinced that it wasn't a big hoax. 

At first, excitement coursed through his veins, psyched for another great adventure. _Ever since John got married… no… Since Moriarty has been gone, the world has been bleak. Boring. Endlessly gray skies, dull cases, classless criminals like Magnussen… I honestly can't live without… without…_ Sherlock's thoughts stuttered as he tried to use the criminal's real name in an admission of yearning, _James._

He'd gotten his hopes up for _nothing_.

 

* * *

 

John was glad to have his best friend back, safe from danger. The idea that he was wanted pleased Sherlock very much, but wrinkled his nose in disgust when Watson suggested it was _for the best_ if Moriarty never reared his demented head back in their lives. 

 _But where would the fun in that be?_ Sherlock thought, wondering why he was so upset by this idea.

"Sherlock, do you _want_ Moriarty to be back? He tried to force you into _suicide_!" 

Of course John's point was valid. Still, a world without an equal seemed… almost not worth living. _Perhaps if he really thought I'd kill myself… he killed himself to avoid such a lonely fate._

"I'd like him back, yes." As the doctor cast him a confused look, Sherlock made up a convincing enough lie, "If only to find out what I missed." It wasn't a complete fib, but John still didn't completely understand.

To be honest, neither did Sherlock. All he knew for certain was that he had a powerful desire for Moriarty, and all he entailed, back in his life. 

 

* * *

 

"Impossible," Sherlock had muttered as the plane had turned around, "I watched him eat a bullet. No chance he survived that…" A story which he would repeat to Mycroft in an interrogation room a few hours later.

"This is serious, Sherlock." His older brother said, brandishing Moriarty's file, "There are people out there saying this was a trick. A trick _you_ made to get away with _murder_."

Sherlock sat in the small room, a bright light shining in his face, "Oh yes, I'm sure I could've anticipated England's utter horror and panic making them unable to deal with James by themselves…" He droned, heaving a sigh, "If anything, I would've assumed they'd have _you_ deal with him." 

The corners of his older brother's mouth tightened, "I've already proven I am unable to do so, brother mine." Admitting he was _incapable_ of besting someone made Mycroft physically ill, but Moriarty was an exceptional case. 

Eventually, Sherlock was discharged, suspicions of his involvement had been allayed. At least, for now. 

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, as much as he enjoyed being in the "exciting" life, Watson found his time with Sherlock dwindling. Just as it had right after his marriage. 

He had a real, full-time job. An attentive and caring wife. A child on the way, due any day. There were moments he closed his eyes in frustration, wondering where the days were going, if he had made a huge mistake, if he should call up the detective and run away with him, back to the high life. 

But he repressed those thoughts; how much he wanted the fantasy was almost scary. Too real. He was a man of principles and honor — he could never leave his family like that. He would _not_ be like his sister.

It was thoughts like these that distracted him enough that he didn't realize he hadn't seen Sherlock in more than a month. 

 

* * *

 

Today was different. Sherlock knew it in his heart, and couldn't be told otherwise. _Not that anyone would dare question my judgement when it comes to things like this…_

There had been a string of interesting cases, one right after the other. A triple murder, an embezzlement of a high-end international bank, a daylight robbery from three different safety deposit branches, all in the span of eight hours. The message was abundantly clear: _Someone wants my attention. Someone special_. 

The air was still, allowing Sherlock's excitement to dance through it uninterrupted, _There's only one person_ that _special…_ He tried very hard not to jitter with glee whilst investigating the homicide scene with Lestrade standing right next to him.

Three bodies. Two men, one woman. The men were in their mid-fifties, easily. One of them was a foreign minister, the other man being his translator. The woman was in her early twenties, wearing a very "minimalistic" outfit.

As Greg was prepared to pronounce this a hook-up-gone-wrong, Sherlock correctly pointed out the woman's clothes was meant to throw things off. She happened to be a prominent young captain in an Eastern European military, selling secrets to the colonies. 

As Sherlock was about to reveal how he'd gotten all of this cloak-and-dagger information, he heard a text chime:

 

**Clever you. I'll just make myself at home while I wait.**

 

 ****Unknown number. _Perfect._ Sherlock thought as he sped back to Baker Street, barely remembering to yell, "Left the stove on!" to the detective inspector, hoping it was enough to keep him from following. 

"Since when does Sherlock know how to use a stove?" Sergeant Donovan asked, Lestrade equally dumbfounded and perplexed by this new information. 

 

* * *

 

John thinks of calling Sherlock. In fact, he considers it nearly every day. But he worries the moment he gives in, he'll forget the comfortable life he's established. 

Of course, Watson constantly fears his consulting detective will fall off the wagon again, back to drugs, back to obscurity. But for now, he has faith that he won't. 

That, and he's let his mustache grow back in again. _Can't very well drop in on him with_ this _still on my face, can I?_

"I'm going to take off early today," he tells his secretary as he leaves the office, "Spend some time with a good friend I've been ignoring." No one questions it. 

 

* * *

 

Bursting into his living room, a glimpse of Westwood told Sherlock that his wishes had been granted. Sitting in his chair, sporting an absolutely enormous grin, was his nemesis. 

"Well done, Sherly." Moriarty positively radiated elation, "I was beginning to think you'd given up on me." Sherlock noted that he looked well; he had clearly been eating and sleeping appropriate amounts, recently pressed suit, no doubt keeping busy, but obviously still bored without opposition. 

"Sherly?" He asked, trying to contain his excitement.

"Some would call it a 'pet name.' I assumed we had finally gotten to that point in our relationship, or was I mistaken?"

"No… no… that's okay." The detective took the chair opposite him, "I was beginning to think you'd disappoint me."

"Me? Disappoint _you_? How so?" Moriarty feigned surprise and hurt.

"Thought you were actually dead, and your ghost was being a _tease_." Sherlock's flirting ability was limited at best, especially with someone he actually felt was on his level. 

"Please, death sounds _boring_. You had to have known I'd _never_ leave you." 

Suddenly too far into unfamiliar territory, his eyes flitted away, breaking James' drilling eye contact, "Do tell me how you've been."

"Small talk, dear? How unlike you."

"Well, I don't suppose I care _how_ you've been doing so much as _what_."

"Tut-tut, Sherly, you didn't used to ask for answers."

"Sorry, my mistake. I've been so painfully under-stimulated that I forgot solutions don't always just jump out at me."

"I forgive you, pet." Moriarty giggled, "I've been well, you?"

"Bored out of my various skulls."

"Honesty! I like it!"

"It's not like I can lie to you — you'd probably have me shot for denying you the satisfaction."

"Satisfaction of what, darling?"

"Admitting that _yes_ … I _did_ miss you."

"How sweet." James teased, "I've missed you as well. But you knew that; why else would I reveal myself just to save you?"

"So you admit that was for _me_?"

"Of course, my dear. You are quite precious to me. The big, bad Iceman was about to send you to certain death." 

"… thank you." Sherlock looked down, trying to hide the heat on his face that was surely _blushing_.

"Don't even mention it, my pet." James leaned forward, eyes flitting to Sherlock's lips, "Though I admit it was a _teensy_ bit for myself as well. Call it curiosity."

"Over what? Don't you have all the answers?" Sherlock couldn't help but notice James' eyes, now focused on his mouth. He couldn't help but return the favor, and as if connected by thousands of invisible threads, leaning in himself. 

"Only as many as you'll give me."  

"I make no promises."

"Fair enough," he said in his singsong voice, "Whatever shall we do now? Are you going to turn me in? Torture me? I daresay I've got some useful information your brother might find amusing. Or maybe you'd like to keep me all to yourself?"

In response, Sherlock gave the tiniest of smiles. 

 

* * *

 

At home, Mary keels over in pain, "John!"

Watson had been in the bathroom, smearing shaving cream on his face, "Yeah?" He hollered, about to pick up the razor. 

"I… I think the baby's coming!" 

He barely had time to wipe off his face hastily before dashing downstairs and whisking her to the car.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, Sherlock was upon Moriarty, lips furiously smashing against the the criminal's. _So many things_ … he thought, his senses suddenly inundated with new stimuli — the smell of Jim's suit, recently taken to the cleaners. His hair, slicked back with a vaguely floral gel. Soft hands, fingers running down Sherlock's neck, lightly caressing his skin. Nails well manicured, warm, soft, lightly moistened skin. Very slight stubble, grazing Sherlock's cheeks, sending small shocks downward.

Despite the attack coming from the detective, Jim easily took over as Sherlock became overwhelmed with sensory input, mouth moving in some rhythm that the sleuth couldn't quite pick up on.

"Something wrong, lovely?" James asked, lips still pressed firmly against Sherlock's.

"Not at all…" the curly-haired man said, trying to understand this new sensation, "It's just… I never…" 

"Oooooohhhh." Jim needled in surprise, "Don't tell me 'the Virgin' is _actually_ a virgin?" 

Sherlock creased his mouth. His initial assault was almost involuntary — an urge his body couldn't resist, a combination of his own feelings and loud, unmistakable signals coming from James. Yet, he had no idea where to go after that, and was now feeling waves of painful embarrassment. 

These immediately disappeared as Moriarty's hand lovingly weaved into Sherlock's hair. 

"How adorable." The criminal beamed, kissing Sherlock gently this time, "I promise I'll treat you right." 

 

* * *

 

It had been a quick ride to the hospital, which had been merciful, as Mary's contractions were increasing at an exponential rate. By the time they were admitted, she was already dilated four centimeters. 

"Just try and breathe, honey…" John encouraged, but was completely inexperienced with childbirth — he was an army doctor, not a obstetrician. His business was in the dying side of medicine, not giving life. 

"Don't be nervous," Mary says, chipper as she could muster, "We'll take her home soon."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

They clasped hands, Mary squeezing John's a little harder than she intended, "Sorry, I'm a _bit_ uncomfortable."

John kisses her forehead, "I understand. Have you picked a name yet?"

"When I see her, I'll know." 

In a spare moment, he dashes out a text to Sherlock:

 

**The baby is coming!! Get to Bart's IMMEDIATELY!!! -JW**

 

* * *

 

"I honestly… don't know… what to do…" Sherlock gasps as James attacks his neck, his mobile still in the living room. Needless to say, even _if_ he had heard the text chime, the phone would've remained untouched. 

They had made it to the bedroom, Sherlock laying flat on his back, Moriarty on top of him, fingers working their way down his shirt, undoing his buttons agonizingly slow. 

Sinking into the blue comforter, the sleuth feels as if he's been submerged in an endless ocean — a painless death, with some strange simulation of breathing. James Moriarty has taken his breath, his raft, his life vest. He is adrift in a boiling sea, steam flowing away from him as he sinks deeper. But he can't bring himself to swim back to the surface.

"Just follow my lead, honey." 

He wants to sink, to fall into unknown depths. Into a realm where he can be with Jim.

 

* * *

 

 _He doesn't usually take this long to respond…_ It had been twenty minutes, and John had begun to worry. _Maybe something's wrong? Moriarty? Something? Anything? It must be important if he's neglecting his mobile…_  

Mary was laying on the bed in the birthing suite, not making too much noise. "How's the pain?" John tried to make small talk to get his mind off of fussing over Sherlock. 

"Not terrible... yet." His wife responded, upbeat as she could be while breathing heavily, "My chest feels a bit tight, though." 

"Should I get the doctor?"

"Aren't _you_ a doctor?" She winked.

"Not really my area…" John grinned, "But let me have a look." 

Just then, Mary screamed bloody murder.

 

* * *

 

Clearly, James was an expert. Each article of clothing came off just as slowly as the last, not letting lust get the better of him, "You still doing alright, my dear?"

Sherlock could only nod — his whole body was shaking, a lump had formed in his throat, welling up with what seemed to be emotion and hormones. He was down to just his knickers, his arousal now being _very_ clear to a completely dressed Jim, "Seems you're not as disinterested in sex as everyone seems to think…" 

"I _am_ disinterested." Sherlock said with enough conviction to make James flinch.

"Then why —"

"I'm not done." The detective said, momentarily freeing himself from the mist filling his throat, "I am disinterested in _them_."

"What makes me so special?" James asked as he thrust his hips forward, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the man beneath him.

"Isn't it _obvious_?" Sherlock teased, recovering from the shock of pleasure, "You need me or you're nothing." The sea reappears, a strong riptide pulling him back, unanchored. 

Moriarty tore the detective's boxers effortlessly in half, the pieces cascading to either side of the bed, "I'd like to test that theory." 

 

* * *

 

The doctor gasped as he realized the sheets were soaked in blood. 

Running to get the attending assigned to Mary, John was already losing hope. Medical school had been a long way back, but everyone was required to do an obstetrics rotation, _That much blood during_ anything _is never good, but…_

His fears were only confirmed when he finally got the attending in the room. Her brows were knit together tightly as she began a cursory examination. 

"It seems the umbilical cord has prolapsed… we will need to move quickly if your child is to survive." The words fell out of her as if each burned her throat.

It was nothing like the earth-shattering agony that went through both of the Watsons. 

 

* * *

 

"S-sorry, didn't plan on —" Sherlock grew very red in the face.

"It's fine. Funny enough, I _did_." James' eyes twinkled as he reached in his coat pocket and produced a small vial of lubricant. 

"How presumptuous of you." He mirrored the glimmer, wondering how much Moriarty was _really_ in control of the situation. 

"To your _extreme_ benefit." He slicked up three fingers

"Are you getting undressed anytime soon?"

"Why would I? The show's just starting…" 

 

* * *

 

"We will need to perform an emergency C-section…" The doctor swallowed, keeping down her own rising emotion,"I'm sorry Mr. and Mrs. Watson, I'm afraid I have to ask… should it come down to the wire, would you like us to focus on saving Mary or the baby?" 

"Mary!" John shouted at the same moment Mary said, "The baby." 

They exchanged glances; John's one of utter shock, Mary's of calm conviction, "Would you give us a moment?" She asked the doctor politely, eyes not leaving John's. 

"Of course." The physician backed out quickly. 

 

* * *

 

The first finger had gone in without much resistance, but as James added a second, Sherlock yelped at the sharp pain.

"Shh, shh." Jim whispers, "You need to relax." 

Sherlock fights every instinct he had to snap, _What do you think I'm trying to do? Do you think I want to hurt myself?_ He has managed a brief resurfacing from his watery grave, attempting to parse out his new, distant inklings.

Even without saying it out loud, James could read the thoughts on his face, "Would you like to stop, lovely? We can always try another day."

Shaking his head violently, the detective realized how much he actually _did_ want this. A fire had slowly been kindling in his abdomen, consuming his logical, detached brain. The intensity of the heat wave on the outside had distracted him from looking back in. He had never felt so bonded to another person. The closest he could remember this feeling… was when he _first_ met Moriarty. 

As if to remind the detective _why_ this was happening, James' finger lightly grazed Sherlock's prostate. He groaned and shuddered, unable to control his reactions. For once, without the aid of drugs, Sherlock had given completely over to instinct. 

A third slipped in. 

 

* * *

 

"Mary, this is crazy! We can have another baby!" Watson tried to keep as even-tempered as his wife, but was failing at the thought of losing her. 

"John, listen to me." She squeezed his hand, going deadly serious, "My life isn't worth saving."

"Bloody hell it's not!" He prepared thousands of arguments to the contrary.

"John." She warned, "I think I would know better than you." 

"Mary, please, I love you…"

"I love you too. But listen… I've _killed_ people. _Countless_ people. For no reason whatsoever. My life was about destroying others… please, let my death be about saving another. Let it be worth something."

"You don't have to die." John began to weep.

"Neither does she." Tears formed in Mary's eyes.

 

* * *

 

Finally, James withdrew his hand. Sherlock took this as a sign to begin ripping away Jim's expensive suit. The waves had subsided, allowing him a fleeting moment of clarity; he wasn't about to waste it. 

He throws himself on top of the criminal, Moriarty shocked by the sudden burst of dominance. _I can hardly believe I'm letting him… but damn, it's hot._

Sherlock then grabs the lube, squirting a bit into his hand and begins stroking Moriarty's own ignored arousal. 

The gesture was clearly unexpected, as James began gasping and swearing. Writhing in pleasure, Jim's thoughts turned to wanton lust, craving _ownership_ of the man above him, so happily crossing into his territory. He forced his eyes open to meet with Sherlock's; this moment could've been his last, and he'd have no regrets. 

Watching Jim unravel beneath him was the most ravishing sight the detective had ever seen. He indulges in a few more moments of this before letting go and falling back. 

 

* * *

 

John can't breathe. He can't comprehend what he's hearing, or that he actually _allowed_ Mary to make this call. She refuses to budge, or continue to speak on this matter.

"Keep thinking of names." She weakly tries to start up conversation, but Watson is beyond words. Putting on a fake smile, he offers to bring her some ice chips.

As he walks out, he can't help but feel a noose has been belted around his neck, steadily growing tighter. If anyone's life was expendable, it was his own. _But the world doesn't work that way… my life's worthiness hasn't even been called into question…_

All he can do is chant to himself, _standard procedure. Doesn't mean anyone needs to die. It's just protocol. That question doesn't mean anything. They'll both be fine. There won't be complications. Standard procedure…_

 

* * *

 

Crawling back on him, Jim plants a few kisses on Shelock's neck before nipping his ear, "Say it." 

As if lines had been fed into his mind (and perhaps they were, Moriarty being so close to him like this), Sherlock knew exactly what James was looking for:

"Take me. Please." 

It's a pathetic whimper, but he doesn't care, happily surrendering to the ocean, filling his lungs with hunger. 

Jim couldn't have smiled wider, pride overtaking his rational mind, "I love you." 

He pushes into Sherlock before he can choke out a reply.

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait outside." The surgeon doesn't want to turn away a panicked husband, but even though he is a doctor, hospital policy dictated he couldn't be in the operating room.

Mary began screeching in pain. The doctor and nurses rushed around her furiously, trying to keep her from bleeding out.

John can only listen. All breath is robbed from his body, feeling as if he were in a full-on collision with a bus. 

 

* * *

 

James gives Sherlock a moment to adjust before moving. With each careful thrust, the initial discomfort lessens, and the detective moans incrementally louder. 

In response, Jim rocks his hips faster. Pressure begins to build in both of them, ravaging each other, clinging, scratching, gasping, biting, unable to think of anything but the fire being stoked in both of them.

Their minds race to reach one another, to bridge the void between them. Sherlock now struggles to stay afloat, scrambling to keep up with the demands of the raging currents, hauling him in every direction. The world beyond this moment has been paused, muted. 

Jim has become his lifeline. One last connection to all that is real. 

 

* * *

 

The baby was successfully cut out of Mary's abdomen, but the umbilical chord had been wrapped around the girl's neck for minutes, cutting off oxygen. She didn't cry at all, as she wasn't breathing.

Attempts to resuscitate are unsuccessful. 

 

* * *

 

Quivering, Sherlock had gone insensate with _need_. His body had been so numbed with pleasure that he could no longer process the messages his nerves desperately tried to relay. It would all be over soon, "Please…" He begs, unable to fully ask. Words, ideas, coherency… it all inched away, forbidding him any form of real communication. 

Yet, Moriarty picks up on the request anyway. He drives into the detective harder, taking his abandoned length in hand, gradually pumping faster. 

Sherlock shouts James' name as he reaches climax. A bright blue film overtakes his vision, each of his nerve endings screaming in release.

Moriarty quickly follows, panting into Sherlock's ear a string of sweet, demented nothings, only one truly sticking. 

"I won't ever let you leave me."

As he sinks deeper into this new comfort, it goes void black, as the ocean does when sunlight can no longer reach its depths. Darkness is all he needs as James joins in glutted bliss. 

 

* * *

 

Mary's last thoughts are of John on their wedding day. He seemed happy. As blackness crawls over her eyes, she hopes that he'll find happiness like that again. 

Flatline. 

 

* * *

 

Lighting up a cigarette, Moriarty takes a long drag, sitting up lazily against the headboard as Sherlock settles under his arm. "Well dear? How was it?" 

"It… it was…" Sherlock gratefully took the tube from James and inhales slowly, letting the smoke fill him. It is the kiss of life, allowing air back in. Exhaling, he still couldn't find words, "Indescribable." 

"Didn't think I was _that_ good." James laughed as they passed the smoke between them.

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." The consulting criminal winked, kissing Sherlock gently.

 

* * *

 

Head securely in his hands, mind wracked with worry, John didn't see the doctor gait out of the operating room. Nor did he see the positively grin look on his face as he approached, "Mr. Watson?" 

John looked up, but he already knew. 

"Mr. Watson, we're terribly sorry for your loss…" 

He falls forward, heart stopping for a moment in agony. It restarts. Speeds up. His brain has shut down all capacity for coherent thought. He is a white hot ball of pain. His body feels too small for the murky venom of despair now rapidly working its way through his system. There are no atoms he doesn't feel.

All goes black. 

 

* * *

 

"I love you, too." Sherlock mumbles into Jim's chest. The words hang in the air, but neither are sure they mean anything at all. In all likelihood, they had both said it due to the hormonal rush. There are feelings present, ones they can't ignore. But neither of them are even sure they know what "love" feels like. Silently, they both decide it isn't important.

At some point, the duo fall asleep, nestled against each other. 

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Molly has John sign papers. As she shuts the morgue drawer, Mary's corpse cold and mangled from the chest down, she tries to offer the distraught doctor any comfort she can. 

But he is beyond help. He is pure grief.

 

* * *

 

James wakes up first. Checking the clock, he sees it's early evening, but doesn't want to leave his beloved detective quite yet. With a quick glance next to him, he physically cannot bring himself to wake Sherlock — he's far too relaxed. _Peace is something we know very little of_ , Moriarty mused, _Best let him come out of it on his own_.

Wriggling into one of Sherlock's robes, he decides to have another cigarette in the living room. 

 

* * *

 

John sets his sights for Baker street, desperately needing the support of his final lifeline. Seeking one last reason to keep going.

 

* * *

 

As he begins a second smoke, James hears the front door slam open. 

"Sherlock!" John shouts, voice cracking, clearly in distress. Against his better judgement, Moriarty doesn't move, allowing the doctor to ascend the stairs, finally reaching the top landing.

 

* * *

 

Throwing the door open to the living room, John is too focused on finding Sherlock to register that there is someone on the couch. 

Then he scans the room, and the name _Moriarty_ vaguely registers in his subconscious. A few seconds later, it's pulled forward. John sees James on the sofa, barely dressed, smoking casually, as if he _belongs_ there. 

"Hello, Johnny-boy." The criminal says casually, "What brings you here?" 

"What —" He has only fractions of a second to process any of it before the bedroom door opens.

He turns his head to see Sherlock ambling out, loosely draped in a sheet, as if he had just woken up.

"James? What's the racket —  _oh_." Sherlock's face is pure deer-in-the-headlights. He looks afraid. He looks concerned — he _knows_ something happened to John, by the tears on his face, by the worry lines in his skin, by the tone of his distressed voice. 

 _But what Sherlock_ doesn't _seem at all worried about is the_ dangerous criminal _sitting in his bloody living room._ "Sherlock, what is this?" John says, deadly calm now, reflecting his late wife's dangerous demeanor, "Why is Moriarty _here_? Why isn't he _dressed_? No, why aren't _either_ of you dressed?!" 

"Oh please, doctor, you aren't _that_ daft, are you?" Moriarty asked, stubbing out what was left of the burning stick.

"James." Sherlock said in warning, _Not now._

Somehow, Moriarty slips out of the situation just as John collapses. He dresses rapidly and escapes 221B as the doctor has a meltdown. 

 _Apparently his best friend losing his virginity to the enemy was enough to send him over the edge. As if his wife and child dying wasn't enough!_ He has a quiet cackle to himself as he has a car meet him at the corner. 

 

* * *

 

Silence becomes a theme over the next few days — after Sherlock talks him out of his catatonic state, John manages enough words to explain what had happened. Then his voice appears to leave altogether.

Sherlock vows not to leave his side until he's better. John is apprehensive, but realizes silently that the (in his opinion) ruined detective is the sole remaining force of goodness and support in his life. His best friend.

_Even if he fucked the man who once tried to kill me._

 

* * *

 

The funeral is arranged quickly. No more than a week after Mary's death, or the baby's with no name. 

Sherlock hasn't heard a single word from Moriarty. _It's probably for the best_ … he idly wonders if they'll ever see each other again, or if James had felt he achieved as much chaos as he could with Sherlock's life, and moved on to the next emotionally frail genius he could latch onto. 

He decides not to think about it. Obviously, their involvement hurt John, and he sees no problem with a momentary deceit. All to spare his dear friend's feelings.

Attendance at the wake is low. Some of the people from the wedding are there, but Sherlock isn't paying attention. Notably, John's sister Harriet doesn't show. He ponders if his friend even remembered to invite her. 

He sits next to John, who has been laconic and pale-faced for days. 

As the event wraps up, all Sherlock can think is: _And they never even knew her name…_

 

* * *

 

Even fewer attend the actual burial. He stands next to John, front and center. He realizes that aside from the eulogy, the doctor hasn't said one word the entire service. For days, even. Sherlock knows he must be stability; his rock. But he isn't the best as these sorts of things.

They stand there until the last speck of dirt covers the grave. They stand until everyone else is gone. 

A text chime breaks the silence. He doesn't read it. No, this moment is too harsh. Too consuming of what little emotional capacity he has. 

John either doesn't notice, or pretends not to. 

 

* * *

 

Later, when he's back home, when he's ready, Sherlock looks at his phone. 

 

**I await your return. Until then, enjoy this next case.**

 

 ****It feels wrong to smile. But it's automatic — with such a simple text, Jim has assured the downtrodden detective that things will return to normal. Or whatever normal was in their messed-up, unfair, tumultuous, drowning world.

 

**Thank you. -SH**

 

**Always thinking of you, sexy. -JM xx**

 

 


End file.
